


ask, and you shall receive

by strawberrv



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dom/sub Undertones, HAHAHDSBJ THATS A TAG???? WORD, Hand Jobs, Kink Discovery, Kitchen Sex, Language Barrier, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Non AU, Team Dynamics, again kinda just ty being like THAT!, not even that much just ty being.. like That
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:38:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrv/pseuds/strawberrv
Summary: sicheng is close, and not just closer than you’d stand to talk to someone, but close like, taeyong kind of has to cross his eyes to look at himclose.he’s backlit by the moonlight streaming through the living room window, lighting up the normally fruit-juice colored hair at the back of his head an ethereal, watery rose. he’s in sleep clothes — a t-shirt and boxer-briefs. he has one sock on. taeyong hasn’t breathed in 20 seconds.





	ask, and you shall receive

**Author's Note:**

> hi..... (michael jackson hiding from the press picture) LISTEN I..... ??  
> i just got SICK of looking at dti2 momentarily i PROMISE i'll finish it soon but i got a burst of inspo and wrote this all today ?? lmao.. so that's prob why it's a lil choppy sorry abt it ! this is just, like, so self-indulgent and random and a little cracky ?? dskjndkjn like it's played serious but IDK MAKE UR OWN JUDGMENTS I GUESS.  
> basically like.... im obsessed w fire truck era dont fucking @ me  
> oh and theres bg markhyuck peace sign emoji

taeyong does his best. that’s kind of the only thing he does.

he’s doing his best to get these subunits through debut, each with new members that look at the stage with a fear anew, each with new concepts and burning dye jobs and heavy, itchy clothing. it’s getting to be a lot, and this is only the second one.

the first time, he mainly looked after mark and ten, keeping jaehyun and dongyoung close in his periphery. mark is young, so young, and so talented that he gets noticed right away — by media, by fans, by interviewers, by _everyone._ but that's ok, taeyong predicated that.

ten, still learning korean, still learning what he should and shouldn’t say on tv, is purely himself, inexperienced with masks — the art of diluting oneself. there were times when taeyong had to reign him in, pat his shoulder discreetly, give him a sharp look across the room. but, at the end of the day, it’s really him who should be bowing in respect — ten made his debut long before all this, in thailand with that terrible haircut, but performing on stage nonetheless. he was born for it, the lights, the cameras, everything. he doesn’t need a mask because he’s been shaping his real face into one for longer than any of them.

dongyoung and jaehyun, sturdy like pillars, keep taeyong himself on track, making sure he sleeps, cooking when he can’t, firmly stitching together everything that starts to fray behind the scenes. taeil calmly watches, fingers on the pulse, keeping count, keeping track. the varieties kill him, but privately he’s a paperweight, smoothing them all back down when they get too wired.

taeyong thought it’d be easy after that first chaotic, terrible month. that was the _real_ debut after all, now it’s just a matter of matching the new concepts. the first time they’re about to go on for firetruck, he knows he’s gravely miscalculated.

taeil, jaehyun, and mark do their absolute fucking best, taeyong can tell they’re trying so hard, but even still he can see that fear renewed in their eyes, the tremor in taeil’s hand, mark clutching his mic too tightly, jaehyun stock still, frozen under the pressure. and, of course, there’s sicheng and yuta and donghyuck, green but covering it up, trying to look natural, trying to look solid.

that’s the secret — the magic they have to find. how do you drop new people into a group and make it seem like they’ve been there all along? all at once, taeyong realizes this is what they’ve been training for, and then they’re going on, footsteps nervous across the stage.

as he’s standing there, waiting for the lights to go up, leather pants sticking to him every which way with sweat, taeyong glances around at all of them, not a single one breathing. he feels it, then. the weight of it all. he’d maybe deluded himself into thinking it wasn’t as big as it is up to this point, but he can’t ignore it now. not when he’s center-stage, listening for the music from his in-ears. this isn’t as simple as following a map. he has to make the road.

so, when the music starts, and mark’s eyes go wide, and jaehyun’s half a beat off, and sicheng shakes enough so the backings of his earrings start falling off, taeyong takes a breath. prays it’s enough oxygen for all of them.

/

yuta rapidly settles into it, so comfortable so fast that taeyong, a little jealous, watches for cracks, waits for him to break.

he doesn’t. he never stutters over his korean, always laughs along with the mcs, stays in formation on stage, steady and sure. after the initial shock, the first few days of promotions that make everyone go a little bit crazy, the u boys calm right back down, too, finding their balance again.

taeyong thought he’d have to keep his eye on donghyuck, just like ten, but mark has this surprising and absolute hold on him; they play like normal teenagers, but when mark stops having fun, eyes sweeping over the camera and shoulders going tense, donghyuck bites his tongue, goes still right after him, following like a lemming.

so, taeyong focuses his attention on sicheng. if any of them need his leadership, surely it’s sicheng. taeyong still remember that first filming of nct life in seoul, sicheng being so nervous and so wound up, tight-lipped and unsure. he’s learned a bit more korean since then, but still hardly enough to ask for something when he needs it. or, maybe that’s a sicheng issue rather than a language issue. taeyong still can’t tell.

sicheng is frail on the debut diet, already thin limbs even leaner, muscles sinewy and tight around his bones. he has this strange and stiff body, and taeyong only understands why once he sees a video of him doing his traditional dancing. his body hasn’t been trained in the same way as the rest of them. he hasn’t been popping his muscles, he’s been stretching them into elegant shapes. his legs are for jumping, gliding, not fast and complex footwork. his arms raise and flutter around him, creating his momentum, framing his body pretty and perfect on the video. taeyong loves it, but it makes sense why he sometimes has so much trouble in dance practice.

only through this careful observation does taeyong notice a limp, developed halfway through their session on a friday night.

“are you ok?” he asks, once the song has ended, the rest of them off to get water.

sicheng startles at being directly addressed, and even looks half-confusedly behind him, like taeyong could’ve been talking to someone else. he looks back, eyes wide, and slowly nods, solemn. taeyong glances at his ankle.

“are you sure you’re ok? you can wrap up early if you hurt yourself.”

it came out too fast, and taeyong curses himself when sicheng’s brows furrow, trying to decipher the words. he’s never sure where the line between considerate and patronizing is.

“i’m ok,” sicheng says, low and awkward, syllables falling slow and strange from his lips. taeyong sighs but nods, patting his shoulder carefully.

“just let me know if you need anything,” and he makes sure to enunciate a little clearer this time.

sicheng’s frown deepens, but he just nods again, and then break is over.

the next day is a rest day, before they have to go on inkigayo on sunday, but when sicheng wakes up and begins shuffling around the dorm, taeyong’s eyes catch on the limp again. it seems to be worse, sicheng leaning on walls and doorframes and lifting his left leg off the ground whenever he can.

taeyong worries his lip all day, debating whether or not to try and help again, but when sicheng sits down with a snack in the afternoon, only to realize he’s forgotten a drink and slowly rise to his feet, hand on the table to steady himself, taeyong can’t take it anymore. he rushes into the kitchen with a “sit down, i’ll get it,” and pours sicheng the cranberry juice he likes over ice, automatically cutting a lemon and dropping the slice in.

he sets it down, perhaps a bit more roughly than necessary, and says, “you’re not ok.”

sicheng looks at the glass, and then at taeyong, eyes wide. he blinks, shaking his head.

“i’m ok.”

taeyong sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“you can ask for help, you know? it’s not a crime. i told you to let me know if you needed anything, didn’t i?”

sicheng swallows, and taeyong can tell he’s holding jaw open just slightly, lingual braces no doubt irritating his tongue. 

“i’m ok,” he says again, and moves to take a sip of his drink, but taeyong groans and grabs his wrist.

“no, you’re not. just come with me, ok? i’ll help.”

sicheng frowns, but lets go of the glass and stands, letting taeyong lead him into the bathroom, limping all the way. he can hear mark and donghyuck bickering in their room as they pass.

taeyong closes the door behind them, and gestures for sicheng to sit down on the closed toilet lid. he does, lowering himself carefully, with a hand on the counter beside him so he doesn’t put weight on his ankle. taeyong opens the medicine cabinet, finding the anesthetic ointment and a roll of bandages easily; he always makes sure to keep well stocked for situations exactly like this. he kneels, setting the items beside him and holding a hand out toward sicheng’s left foot.

sicheng stares at him. taeyong wiggles his fingers.

“come on, i know it’s been hurting. the left one, right?”

sicheng looks at him for a moment longer, then presses his lips together. he leans down, pinky bits of his bleached hair falling into his eyes, and rolls up the leg of his sweatpants, moving his ankle into taeyong’s palm. even with his sock still on, taeyong can already see that it’s swollen, red and white crawling up his calf, the joint itself much bigger than its counterpart still resting by the bottom cabinet.

taeyong sighs again, but wordlessly pulls the sock off and starts rubbing ointment around the joint, holding sicheng’s foot around the arch as gently as he can. still, when he bends it even slightly, sicheng hisses and jerks in place. taeyong mutters an apology and makes quick work of wrapping it, fingers nimble with the roll of bandage, having done this about a million times for himself and the others. he sets it back down carefully after he’s done, gathering the supplies back up and standing.

“i’ll make you an ice pack, too, ok? you should stay off it so you can perform tomorrow.”

as he’s putting things back in the medicine cabinet, he hears sicheng clear his throat from behind him.

“what— ”

taeyong straightens the soapdish before turning to face him. sicheng looks unsure as always, mouth half-open and eyes wary.

“what… does that mean?” he asks, and taeyong feels his stomach drop as the worst guilt in the world fills him up.

“what does what mean?”

_don’t say all of it don’t say all of it, please don’t say i’ve completely failed you as a leader, as a hyung._

sicheng furrows his brow.

“‘let-me-know-if-you-need-anything,’” he says rather slowly, copying taeyong’s pronunciation of the phrase. “what does it mean?”

taeyong’s heart squeezes. he coughs, biting his lips.

“it… it means, like,” god, he’s never been very good with translation, and he’s not even going to attempt any half-baked mandarin he’s picked up.

“it just means, like, if… when something… happens — no, actually it’s more like, when you want something, i can… i can help? or, i can give it to you.”

sicheng stares, mulling over the explanation. taeyong waits, fidgeting his thumbs over each other.

“you… to me… help? give me things?”

taeyong nods fervently, bobbing his head up and down.

“yes! yes, that’s it, exactly. whatever it is, you can ask.”

sicheng looks down, frowning again.

“but, me… but _i,”_ he corrects, shaking his head.

“but i… can’t…? don’t know how. it’s hard.” and he looks up, for once eyes open, expression plain. he looks frustrated. taeyong presses his fingers between his knuckles, wishing, wishing there was something more he could do.

“i know. sometimes i forget that it’s a lot harder for you to do that. i’m sorry.”

sicheng blinks, a little surprised, and shrugs.

“i’m ok.”

taeyong laughs a little, unclasping his hands.

“here, how about this?” he stretches a hand out and helps sicheng up, not letting go so he doesn’t have to put his foot down.

“how about, when you want to ask but don’t know how, you can just tap my shoulder. like this,” he mimes it with his free hand.

“if it’s something simple, you can just put it in your translator and show me, but if it’s complicated, you can tap my shoulder,” he does it again, “and we can try and figure it out together. how’s that?” he knows it was a lot of korean for sicheng to take in, but he did his best to be clear and simple with his words. 

after taking a moment to process, sicheng looks at him and nods once, mouth set.

“good.”

taeyong smiles.

“good,” he says back, and then helps sicheng out into the living room and onto the couch, moving into the kitchen to put an ice pack together. mark shuffles out of his room then, head bent over his phone.

“you guys took a long time in there. didn’t hear the shower, though.”

taeyong feels his face go red, and clears his throat, sealing the plastic bag he’s just put ice into.

“i think you should focus on getting along with your roommate, mark,” he mumbles, before bolting out and over to sicheng.

/

the system works. it really does, sicheng seems a little more relaxed in the following days, more likely to simply ask for water at any given time, or point to his mic strap when he needs help getting it on. it’s a relief, for all of them, but especially taeyong. he feels as if he’s finally done something right since debut, like he might be worthy of his position as leader.

every time he feels that whisper light tap on his shoulder, he startles (can’t help it — sicheng really is very light on his feet) and turns immediately, suddenly very close to sicheng’s long nose and wide eyes, and he tries to get his head on straight to help with whatever it is.

mark sort of watches them, half-entertained by this new dynamic, but taeyong thinks he’s one to be talking — his and donghyuck’s late night bickering has abruptly ceased, and it’s been replaced by these terribly longing, soft looks between them. kids will be kids.

if taeyong purposefully keeps himself looking at that long nose and those wide eyes, not daring to let his gaze drop to full, pouty lips, that’s between himself and no one else.

it does get harder, though — is sicheng getting closer each time taeyong turns around at a tap on his shoulder, or is it just his imagination? and then there was the practice room thing — don’t even get him started.

they’d been rolling around after finishing an afternoon practice, not quite wanting to pull themselves up and trudge back to the dorm, but certainly not wanting to dance anymore. then yuta and mark started complaining about how their hands were aching from lifting sicheng by his harness straps for the choreo, and then taeil had said they had it easy compared to lifting donghyuck for the bridge — and it had quickly devolved into a mess of them attempting one another’s lifts, donghyuck and sicheng the hapless birds, launched into the air again and again.

at first taeyong had mainly been worried about someone getting injured; this is spelling disaster the more slick with sweat the floor becomes, but then jaehyun collapses to the floor and says, “why don’t we just let _them_ decide? sicheng, who would you trust the most to lift you?”

and all heads turn toward sicheng, expectation sparkling in their eyes like he’s a show poodle or something. his cheeks go a bit pink, and he ducks his head, pressing his lips together. a moment passes, and taeyong’s opening his mouth to tell them to lay off, but at the exact same time sicheng’s head pops up, and he says with finality, “taeyong hyung.”

there’s a couple of _ooh_ s and some raised eyebrows; mark in particular looks greatly amused by this turn of events.

“well, let’s get him up there, see what he’s made of then,” yuta says, pulling himself to his feet as jaehyun takes taeyong’s usual position. sicheng lowers himself to the floor, on hands and knees, patient and still. the red straps of his harness shine against the black cotton of his shirt. taeyong swallows.

“so we just… lift?”

yuta nods, rolling his head and stretching out his arms.

“yeah, just right forward. he takes care of the upward momentum, but once he’s up, it’s our job to keep him there.”

taeyong nods, very carefully slipping his fingers underneath the strap on his side, and it’s stupid but it feels kind of sacred — like he’s been given an important task by some divine entity. the back of sicheng’s head is grapefruit pink, bowed and waiting.

mark begins a count in a loud voice, and yuta meets his eyes, nods once, widens his stance. taeyong follows his example, tensing his shoulders in preparation. when mark reaches _8,_ sicheng immediately pushes himself up from the ground in one strong motion, and then he’s up; the strap digs into taeyong’s palms and his biceps flex and he locks his shoulders, shuffling quickly sideways toward the others with yuta mirroring him. sicheng spreads his arms, regal and grand like a hawk, legs coming underneath him at the last second so he can stand.

it’s fast, too fast for taeyong’s liking, because for just a moment he was all (ok, 50%, but still) that held sicheng up from certain injury, keeping him aloft for him to pitch through the air, dancing on nothing.

it’s definitely less dramatic than taeyong’s making it out to be in his head, but he stares at the impressions on his palms where the strap had dug in, tracing over them the whole way home.

/

so yeah. that happened.

and now taeyong is a man possessed, eagerly awaiting the next time sicheng’s fingers will ghost along his shoulder. taeyong’s a nice guy, he’s always liked helping people, but even he has to admit there’s something more to it, here. it’s not just that he’s helping a group member out — he does that a million times a day regardless — but it’s that it’s _sicheng,_ and it’s that sicheng hasn’t asked _anyone_ for help until last month, until taeyong had told him he could in the dorm bathroom. and now, taeyong is always first choice. it makes him feel special, needed, _wanted_ in a way that’s almost perverse; sicheng is two years younger and yet taeyong wants to kneel at his feet, wants to ask his next task, wants to please him.

he shudders at the thought, both in shame and — and something like arousal, but he’s doing his best to suppress that. sicheng _definitely_ doesn’t see their relationship that way, and taeyong’s not about to go around alienating an already alienated and angelically sweet chinese kid by asking if he can suck his dick because he’s a freak that gets a hard-on from serving him or whatever. wouldn’t be very leaderly of him.

/

luckily, or perhaps, inevitably, that choice is taken out of his hands.

it’s in the wee hours, and taeyong’s up because he’s always up, shuffling around, tidying up, brushing his teeth, writing lyrics by moonlight.

tonight he’s decided to indulge, breaking out one of the many birthday cakes he’s received this july that are stacked and wrapped in the fridge; none of their diets really allow them to eat very much, but they keep it in there, sort of masochistically. he’s on his second bite, bent secretly over the counter, cake cool and sweet in his mouth, when it happens.

fingertips on his shoulder. it’s even more electrifying than usual, because taeyong is wearing a tank top, so it’s skin on skin. he feels silly and victorian, getting excited over something like that, but when he turns, he thinks he might be justified.

sicheng is close, and not just closer than you’d stand to talk to someone, but close like, taeyong kind of has to cross his eyes to look at him _close._ he’s backlit by the moonlight streaming through the living room window, lighting up the normally fruit-juice colored hair at the back of his head an ethereal, watery rose. he’s in sleep clothes — a t-shirt and boxer-briefs. he has one sock on. taeyong hasn’t breathed in 20 seconds.

his mouth falls open, but nothing comes out, because sicheng is looking at him. his eyes are running over taeyong’s whole… _situation:_ his hair, pulled back away from his face with a headband, his eyebrows, his eyes — stopping to linger on the scar by his right one — then his nose, lips, chin, then back up to his eyes. taeyong’s never seen this look on sicheng, never seen his eyes so dark. he’s calm, he’s determined, he’s _sure._ like he’s decided something. like he’s figured it out.

god, taeyong’s knees are going weak, and he puts his hands behind him on the counter so he doesn’t fall over or anything equally obvious and embarrassing.

“do you need something?” he manages, finally, voice soft and hoarse from silently existing all night.

sicheng nods, once, deliberately. then he kisses taeyong.

his lips are pillow-soft, firm and full against taeyong’s own thin, pliant mouth. it’s a question, at first, but after taeyong gets over the initial shock he sighs the most shameful, small, high-pitched sigh in the history of the universe. it’s open-mouthed, it’s all breath, still sweet from his birthday cake, it’s helpless and terrible and _wanting._ sicheng gets the message.

he presses his tongue past taeyong’s lips, licking over his teeth and into his mouth, stepping even closer and crowding him against the counter. taeyong’s hands scrabble back against the laminate, looking for purchase, before he gives in and just wraps his arms around sicheng’s neck, pulling him down that extra inch. they kiss like wild people, like they’ve been starved and neglected, like addicts getting fixed.

sicheng is intoxicating; he tastes like dental wax and mouthwash and metal, but beyond that there's the faintness of cranberry juice, just barely. his tongue is like an inferno in taeyong’s mouth, searing heat behind his gums. sicheng smells like laundry and clean, sharp lotion, like hair dye and the city and even the stage, a little bit. taeyong can’t get enough. his hands slip up the back of sicheng’s neck, fingers sliding through that rose colored hair, and sicheng leans even further into him, arching them both over the hard edge of the counter, their bodies pressed together. taeyong thinks he can feel sicheng’s ribs fitting between his own, but he also thinks his heart has stopped beating, so who knows what could be the case.

finally, finally, sicheng detaches, turns his head so taeyong’s mouth is on his cheek, and taeyong continues like a man on a mission — and he supposes he is, after all, isn’t this the request? the favor sicheng silently asked with a tap on his shoulder.

he kisses down, down his cheek, at the bolt of his jaw, under his ear, down his neck.

he whispers, “what, what can i do?” against his jugular, blood pumping beneath his lips. he can hardly believe this is real — sicheng looks like a dream, still in the moonlight. he’s silver, almost elven with that right ear of his.

sicheng, panting, gets that look in his eye again, dark and fucking resolute. he moves them, so his own back is against the counter and taeyong is out in the open, and now the moonlight shines directly on sicheng’s face and, _oh,_ taeyong is surrounded by beautiful people, but sicheng, here, now, is opalescent. he’s shimmering and smooth, like marble underwater. a lost statue of atlantis, to be sure.

a hand lands on taeyong’s shoulder, and he shudders automatically, but this is no gentle askance, it’s a command, it’s pressure, it’s chemical; tannic acid on iron oxide. taeyong lands on his knees.

sicheng looks at him.

“ok?” he asks, rumbling, low in his chest, and the tile is cold on taeyong’s shins, and his birthday cake is still on the counter, icing melting off, and they’re in the middle of the goddamn kitchen, three feet away from where they have to eat rice and kimchi tomorrow morning with everyone else, but taeyong cannot bring himself to be put off in the slightest. in fact (and he’s cursing himself for being so, _so_ sexually one-note), it makes it even better. here sicheng is, asking him another favor, this impossible demand that any sane person would say no to, and he’s asking taeyong. he’s entrusting him with this. he says, _blow me in the kitchen at 3:28 a.m. while the rest of our bandmates are asleep._

and taeyong, at his feet, wrists bound with the silk of his gaze, helplessly helpful and ready to serve, says, _yes, of course, whatever you need._

he puts his hands on sicheng’s thighs, the muscles firm and strong beneath his palms, and noses into sicheng’s erection; he must’ve been worked up before he even came out to the kitchen. taeyong breathes out warm and mouths the line of it, fabric of the underwear making his tongue dry. sicheng shudders from above, and taeyong can see he’s gripping the counter with one hand, knuckles white. he brings his hands up, fingers teasing under the waistband before pulling down in one smooth motion.

sicheng’s dick bobs up, flushed and a little lengthy; taeyong swallows, making sure his gag reflex isn’t about to cause trouble. he glances up at sicheng, who looks down, almost godlike, watching with lidded eyes. taeyong keeps eye contact as licks a hot stripe up sicheng’s shaft, and sicheng’s eyes flutter closed, grip tightening in taeyong’s periphery.

taeyong lets his breath wash over the head before taking him, and his jaw pops as he stretches his mouth open. sicheng tastes bitterly sharp with precome, but the rest is hot flesh, stiff and unyielding under the pressure taeyong applies with his tongue. taeyong wouldn’t call himself a wiz at giving head, but ten seems to like his mouth plenty fine when he’s feeling frisky.

still, taeyong’s extra conscious of everything, keeping his teeth out of the way, the way he moves his tongue; sicheng deserves the best.

taeyong pulls back to the head, letting his mouth go loose, and then going further down, forcing it past his uvula and into the tightness of his throat. sicheng just barely manages to muffle a moan from above, his free hand no doubt pressed to his mouth. taeyong just works his mouth for a second, sicheng’s dick working like a tongue depressor, relaxing his muscles before he swallows around him, and sicheng whimpers.

from here taeyong begins to suck in earnest, moving his head back and forth, hollowing his cheeks and performing little kitten licks around the shaft. sicheng’s legs begin to tremble on either side of him, and taeyong, unable to help himself, pulls off, smiling.

“how long?” he asks, hoping sicheng will grant him an answer.

sicheng removes the hand from his mouth and looks at taeyong, hazy, exalted.

 _“months,”_ he says, and reaches down to grip taeyong’s hair, rough and unforgiving. taeyong’s own dick is heavy between his legs, but he takes sicheng again, wanting to watch him fall apart first. it doesn’t take long — taeyong wraps his hand around the base and focuses on pushing the head into the tightness of his throat again and again, tongue flattening and pressing along the underside. he’s drooling.

sicheng is shuddering, and taeyong is half-concerned he’s going to chip the laminate where he’s gripping it. taeyong wraps his fingers a little tighter, swallows, and then sicheng’s gasping out something like _“hyung,”_ among garbled mandarin, and he’s coming, hot down taeyong’s throat. his right leg goes twitchy, and he shudders out these high, breathless whimpers.

taeyong thinks maybe they’ve been too loud, surely any moment taeil will come out and see what the commotion is, but he’s focused on sicheng, on swallowing, on milking the last few lurches from his body, keeping that tenseness in his abs just a moment longer.

sicheng huffs, yanking taeyong’s head back when he gets too sensitive, and taeyong _loves_ that, perhaps a concerning amount. he settles back on his knees, hands going to his crotch to release some of the pressure built up. he’s aching, now, but all that matters is sicheng, sicheng coming down in the moonlight, hair glowing pale around his face, cheeks flushed high with color, lips swollen, panting. it’s non-secular; he’s the david reborn of flesh above marble, he’s a crane, preening in the river with the peach trees.

perhaps taeyong is feeling a bit dizzy from the headiness of his own arousal to be comparing classical joseon era paintings to a post-orgasm member of his band, but to him, at least, the comparison is accurate. when sicheng gets his breath back, he gracefully drops to his knees, watching taeyong with that look still intact.

“i’ll help you now, hyung,” he whispers low in his throat, and taeyong shakes, stupefied and hot all over, knees sliding over the tile floor.

“please,” is all he has the mind to say, and sicheng obliges, dipping a hand into taeyong’s cotton shorts, rubbing him through his underwear, palm firm, other hand going to rest on his shoulder, always his shoulder, steadying his rapidly fraying body. taeyong’s own hands hang uselessly at his sides, knees spreading wider as sicheng works him, and before long it’s just sicheng’s hand directly on his dick, fingers wrapped around and pulling small moans out his mouth.

taeyong wishes the cabinet were still behind him, but there’s naught but empty air, so he tips forward instead, forehead landing in the crook of sicheng’s neck, and it’s all he can do to kneel there, to bask in the building pleasure. his hands and feet are going tingly, and he feels his heart working overtime, breath coming faster and faster as sicheng pumps him faster, faster.

his hands go up to clutch at the cotton of sicheng’s shirt as he grows closer, nails catching on the fabric. he squeezes his eyes shut and says, “sicheng, i —” and sicheng hums, pressing his thumb just under the curl of the head, and taeyong whines high and _loud_ (oops), into sicheng’s neck, hips pitching forward as he spills over sicheng’s knuckles, into his underwear. he fully shakes apart, bones rattling under his skin as everything falls away.

for a few seconds, he’s not anybody’s leader, he’s not keeping tabs, he’s just feeling warm and _good_ in a handsome boy’s arms, and oh, there’s nothing sweeter. sicheng holds him through it, and he holds him after that, and then they pull away.

gone is the intensity, and sicheng’s looking at him with the same near-blank innocence he carries daily, if a bit sleepier and more contented.

he says, “thank you, hyung,” using the same tone he does when taeyong gets his in-ears untangled. taeyong smiles, ruffles his hair, and says, “no problem, sicheng-ah. thanks for asking.”

/

the next morning, feeling guilty, taeyong cooks a big breakfast, trying to keep any traces of blush off his face when he steps through _the_ area, and all seems to be well, no awkwardness, until dongyoung bursts out of his room, expression riddled with irritation. he marches over, looking around the kitchen with disgust, before slamming his hands on the table.

“ _must_ we fuck in the kitchen in the middle of the night? not the couch? not in the afternoon? christ, i live with witless, lustful…” he continues as he makes his way back down the hall to bathroom door, which he bangs on until yuta scampers out, toothbrush still in his mouth, and promptly slams behind him. 

yuta shrugs and moves to the kitchen sink to spit.

“sounds like _he_ needs to get fucked in the kitchen, is all i’m saying.”

taeyong laughs along, hoping his blush isn’t too apparent, until he feels the brush of fingers on his shoulder.

he freezes, turns, and there’s sicheng, holding out the jar of jam, lid sealed, with a knowing smile.

**Author's Note:**

> eye.... if u HAVE thoughts i'd love to hear them skjnfk like i dont even know what this is so i'd like tew know what other ppl make of it i guess !
> 
> u can find me on twitter!  
> @lookslikerain (main)  
> @rouxberrv (fic acc)


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